The Third Lynx q-2

by Timothy Zahn

  "Trust me, he can take out both of your friends before either has a chance to do anything," I said. "The knives go away now, right?"

  All four Tra'ho'seej were staring at Fayr now. They were still staring when their prisoner abruptly twisted his arms out of his captors' grips and dropped flat on his stomach onto the ground.

  I tensed, as I'm sure the toughs did, waiting for Fayr to take advantage of the newly cleared field of fire to mow them down. But Fayr was cooler than that. More to the point, he also knew we needed to keep a low profile. "The knives go away now, right?" I repeated.

  The leader muttered something under his breath, and the knives disappeared back into their sheaths. I gestured, and the two toughs in back moved up to join their friends. "Have a seat," I invited, waving at the low fire pit wall, and headed in to get their newly freed prisoner.

  He had gotten back to his feet by the time I reached him. "Good evening," I greeted him. "Mr. Da—?"

  "What the hell was that?" he cut me off tartly, his voice muffled by his face shield. "I gave you a perfect opening against those killers, and you just stood there."

  "It's called restraint," I said, frowning. People rescued from kidnapping and robbery were usually a little more civil toward their rescuers. "You have something personal against those kids?"

  "You mean aside from the fact one of them could have stuck his knife in me while I was lying on the ground?" he retorted.

  "But they didn't, did they?" I reminded him patiently. "It's also called not drawing extra attention to yourself. I assumed you were as interested in that as we are."

  "Well, yes," he said, less truculently. "Sorry. I guess I should be more grateful for the rescue, shouldn't I? Thank you."

  "You're welcome," I said. "And I think you may be overreacting a little. All they were after were your cash sticks."

  I couldn't see his expression with the face shield still in place, but I could nevertheless sense his surprise. "My cash sticks?" he echoed. "Why in the world would they think I even had any?"

  "Because I told them," I said.

  "You what?"

  "We needed to find you quickly," I explained. "That seemed the easiest way to do it."

  "I see," he said. The growing annoyance in his voice had vanished, replaced by a cautious anticipation. "Is this about the item?"

  "Yes, but not in the way you're thinking," I said, looking over his shoulder. With the rain still falling the bonfire was starting to die down, but it was still quite warm where I was standing. "Is there a private place where we can go to talk?"

  "That depends on what you have to say," he said, some of the wariness coming back. "Do you have the item I'm looking for?"

  "I'm afraid the item you're looking for no longer exists," I said. "But the item you already have is still greatly in demand, Mr. Stafford." I raised my eyebrows. "Or should I say, Mr. Künstler?"

  His shoulders went rigid. "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "My name's Frank Compton." I hesitated, but there was no good way to say this. "I was with your father when he died."

  For a long moment he stood rigid. Then, carefully, he pulled off his gauntlets and removed his mask.

  It was Daniel Stafford, all right. But the face before me was a far cry from the neat, clean-cut professional college student in Morse's dossier photo. This version had wild and ragged hair, several weeks' worth of beard, and was sheened with sweat and grime. "My name is Stafford," he said quietly but firmly. "Rafael Künstler was my uncle."

  "Ah," I said. So even now his true parentage was to be kept secret. That was fine with me. "My mistake."

  His eyes searched my face. "So you're Frank Compton," he went on. "Uncle Rafael sent me a couple of messages about you."

  "Anything interesting?"

  "Only that you came with a high recommendation as a man who could be trusted." His lip twitched. "I also heard the news report of his death. What happened?"

  "We can go into that later, if you don't mind," I said, looking over my shoulder. The four toughs were still sitting on the fire pit wall, with Fayr facing them from a couple of meters away with his gun still mostly hidden. So far the milling populace didn't seem to have noticed or gotten curious about any of it, but that wouldn't last forever. "Right now, we've got more pressing matters to deal with. Specifically, we need to grab the Lynx and get out of here."

  "And I'm just supposed to hand it over to you?" Stafford asked. "Just like that?"

  "Unless you want to join the rest of the bodies littering the trail of these damn sculptures, yes," I said tartly. "The people who've been creating that trail are already on Ghonsilya looking for you."

  His throat tightened. "How do I know you're not one of them? You said you were with Uncle Rafael when he died. Maybe you're his killer."

  "You said he gave me a vote of confidence."

  "He gave someone named Frank Compton a vote of confidence," he countered. "I only have your word that you're the same person. And don't bother showing me any ID," he added as I reached for my wallet. "I've got lots of ID, too."

  "So I gather," I growled. We didn't have time for this. "Let me lay it out for you. You have three choices. Only three. Option one: you give the Lynx to the people who killed your uncle."

  His eyes flashed. "No," he bit out.

  "Good for you," I said. "Option two is you trust me and let me get you and the Lynx out of here."

  "And option three?"

  I looked him squarely in the eye. "You reject my help, they track you down and kill you, and they get the Lynx anyway."

  His gaze unfocused over my shoulder at the crowd of impoverished artists. He was scared all right, right down to his socks. But unlike a lot of people I'd met over the years, he wasn't going to let fear or panic make his decisions for him. "You still haven't given me any reason to trust you," he said.

  I chewed at the inside of my cheek. There weren't a lot of ways for one stranger to prove to another that he could be trusted.

  But there was one that might work. "Fine. Come with me."

  I headed back down the indentation toward Fayr and Bayta. Stafford, with only a moment's hesitation, followed. "How are they doing?" I asked Fayr as I stepped to his side.

  "They're quiet, and very unhappy," he told me.

  I looked at the toughs. "Taking the opportunity to make their peace with the Creator, I hope?"

  The leader twitched at that. "If they're wise," Fayr said.

  "I don't think wisdom has ever been much of a burden for any of them," I said. "But there's still a chance they'll get to live out the rest of the night. Maybe even longer than that." I pointed to the leader. "You know of a nice, quiet place where you won't be tempted to make trouble?"

  [There are rooms behind the entryway.] he said, his eyes seemingly glued to the bulge in Fayr's poncho that concealed the Rontra's muzzle. [We live there.]

  "Who else uses those rooms? Or any of that area?"

  [No one,] he said. [The foundation and walls are damaged. No one else is willing to take the risk.]

  Apparently, plain simple common sense wasn't any more of a burden for them than wisdom was. "Good enough," I said. "Fayr, take them back and get them settled in for the night. Keep them quiet, of course."

  "No fears," he assured me, gesturing with his gun.

  Silently, the four Tra'ho'seej got up, two of them assisting their still wobbly companion, and filed off through the crowd. Fayr was right behind them. "Why not just use snoozers and put them to sleep?" Bayta asked.

  "Because we may still have some questions for them," I told her. "Don't worry, they're way beyond the point of making trouble. The sight of submachine guns will do that to a person."

  "What now?" Stafford asked.

  "First, we pretend this is a civilized universe," I said. "Bayta, this is Daniel Stafford. Stafford, my partner and assistant Bayta."

  "Pleased," Stafford said shortly. "What now?"

  "Now we prove ourselves to you," I told him. "Question: if we're involved wit
h your uncle's murder, why haven't we already killed you?"

  He snorted. "Obviously, you want the Lynx, and you know killing me won't get it for you."

  "Right," I said. "Now, what if we did have the Lynx, and still didn't kill you? Would that prove we could be trusted?"

  He studied my face. "Probably," he conceded. "But that assumes I'll just hand it over to you."

  "Not at all," I said, letting my gaze drift slowly around the courtyard as I settled my mind back into Westali investigator mode. The Lynx had to be here somewhere, I knew. Stafford wouldn't risk stashing it someplace where he couldn't keep a close eye on it.

  But he wouldn't be carrying it on him, either, especially not after what happened to Künstler. He also wouldn't leave it someplace where one of his fellow artists might stumble over it. That left out most of the maze of rooms and cubbies in the amphitheater, which were out of his sight as well as being out of his control.

  Buried in the courtyard somewhere, then? But ground that had been recently turned over was pretty obvious even to a casual observer. Besides, unless Stafford was digging under his own tent—which was itself way too obvious—the operation would be bound to attract unwelcome attention.

  Unless he'd buried it under someone else's tent? Someone he knew would be gone at a given hour, thereby giving him the necessary privacy, or someone he trusted enough to bring at least partially in on the secret?

  I looked at Stafford, at the taut wariness in his eyes and cheeks and throat. No, he wouldn't have risked a stranger noticing something odd about his tent and investigating. And he certainly wouldn't have trusted anyone here that far.

  So it wasn't hidden in the amphitheater complex or in the courtyard. What was left?

  I looked past Stafford toward the end of the indentation where he'd been working. Silhouetted against the smoky firelight was the lump of claywork he'd been playing with when he'd been so rudely interrupted.

  Clay.

  I smiled. Rule number one in the investigators' handbook: if you can't hide something, disguise it.

  I started into the indentation. Before I'd gone five steps Stafford was at my side. "Where are you going?" he demanded, an anxious edge to his voice. "Don't mess with my sculpture."

  "I'm not going to touch it," I assured him. The fire was still pretty hot, but no longer unbearably so. I reached the inner edge of the indentation and looked down.

  The logs feeding the fire had been stacked in the middle of the pit in a standard crisscross pattern. There were four layers of them, the ones in the top tier mostly burned to ash, those on the bottom blackened but still reasonably intact. Each of the logs was about sixty centimeters long and twenty in diameter, a convenient size for handling.

  Stafford was hovering at my side now, trying very hard not to look nervous and not succeeding very well. "Clever," I complimented him. "Even if someone figured out where it was, he'd have to wait until the fire died down to get at it."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Stafford insisted.

  "There's only one small problem," I said. "Remember I told you the Viper you came here to buy didn't exist anymore? That's because it exploded."

  He seemed to shrink back a little as he looked down into the fire pit. "What do you mean, exploded? How?"

  "I don't know, exactly," I said. "Best guess is that the sculpture's made of some kind of exotic explosive." I looked back at the logs, searching the lower tier for one that didn't show the same scorch pattern as the others on its level.

  And there it was. The closest one, naturally, to our particular indentation. "So far you've been lucky," I said, pointing to it. "You put it there on the bottom, where it's coolest, and all that glazed ceramic clay wrapped around it probably protects it pretty well from the heat. But we'd still better get it out of there as soon as possible."

  He looked at me, his eyes uncertain for the first time since I'd met him. "This isn't just a scam, is it?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean …to get me to …?"

  "To admit to what I already know?" I shook my head. "As to the Viper blowing up, I've seen the damage. In fact, they're holding an art auction at the museum tomorrow night to raise funds to fix the pit it made."

  He exhaled carefully. "I'd heard stories," he murmured. "I thought they were just rumors."

  "They weren't," I assured him. "So. You trust me yet?"

  He gave me a tentative smile. "Well, you at least have to keep me alive until you can get the Lynx out of there, don't you?"

  "Absolutely," I said. "While we're waiting, let's find a quiet place to talk."

  The best place for a private chat turned out to be the damaged section of the amphitheater where Fayr had taken the five Tra'ho juvenile delinquents. We kicked the six of them back out into the tunnel—Stafford confirmed that the gang really did help keep out the riffraff at night—and Bayta and I settled down to hear Stafford's story.

  "He'd been getting offers to buy the Lynx for probably three weeks before the robbery attempt," he told us. "Strange offers, from a mysterious unnamed buyer."

  "How strange?" I asked.

  "The man was naming a price way above what the Lynx could possibly be worth," he said. "That alone made Uncle Rafael suspicious. He started looking into the current status of the rest of the Nemuti sculptures, which was how he found out they'd been disappearing right and left. He doubled the guard on his estate and the gallery and started trying to backtrack the would-be buyer."

  "Only they got in anyway," I said.

  Stafford winced. "Yes," he said grimly. "I think that was what hit Uncle Rafael the hardest. There was no way they could have penetrated the security system without the help of one of the guards."

  "Not necessarily," I said. "There are techniques people in my former line of work would know."

  He looked sharply at me. "Oh?"

  "And I was out of the solar system when it happened," I hastened to assure him.

  "I'm sure you were," Stafford said. "Anyway, Uncle Rafael decided he'd better get the Lynx off the estate before whoever it was tried it again."

  "So he gave you the sculpture, a handful of cash sticks, some fake ID, and told you to lose yourself?"

  "Basically. I hopped the next flight out of Paris and headed for the Quadrail."

  "Did Mr. Künstler also suggest you come to Ghonsilya to find the Viper?" Bayta asked.

  "Actually, that was my idea," Stafford said. "I'd been off the estate a couple of weeks, just riding the Quadrail and staying away from anyplace where I might be recognized, when I got a message from him. His would-be buyer had surfaced again, this time offering to trade the Lynx for the Hawk that had been stolen from a collector on Bellis. He told me he was thinking about going to Bellis to contact the person and size up the situation."

  "Secure in the knowledge that the Lynx was well out of the buyer's reach," I said grimly. "Unfortunately for him, the buyer didn't know that."

  "And I gather arranged an ambush," Stafford said, a shiver running through him. "What the hell are these damn sculptures, anyway? And don't tell me they're just bombs. No one kills just for bombs."

  "I don't know," I said. For the moment, at least, there was no need for him to know about the sensor chameleon aspect. "But for our current purposes it doesn't really matter. Just on general principles, if the bad guys want something, you want to keep it away from them."

  "And hope you can stay alive in the process," Stafford murmured. "Do you at least know who killed my uncle?"

  "We know who ordered the attack," I said, choosing my words carefully. "It's not quite clear yet which specific individuals carried it out."

  "But you'll get them, won't you?"

  "The plan is to ultimately nail the whole gang," I said. "But it might take a while."

  "Doesn't it always?" he said. "So what's the plan? Grab the Lynx and get out of here?"

  "We definitely grab the Lynx," I said. "The getting out part is going to be a little trickier. It turns out that the gang is holding a couple of hostages f
or my good behavior. An ESS agent named Morse, who was sent to find you and bring you back to Earth." I braced myself. "And a young lady named Penny Auslander."

  Stafford stared at me, and even in the dim light I could see some of the color drain from his face. "Penny's here? In God's name—?"

  "Easy," I soothed him. "She was just following your instructions."

  He swore under his breath. "She and the others were supposed to go to Ian-apof," he said. "They were just supposed to throw anyone looking for me off the scent." He glared at me accusingly, as if Penny's presence here was my fault.

  Which, technically, it was. "So I gathered," I said. "Unfortunately, the gang saw through it. Anyway, the point is we have to get them free before we take off."

  "Do you know where they are?"

  "No, but I know where they'll be tomorrow night," I said. "Tell me, in your time here in Paradise have you found out who the best ceramic workers are?"

  "I know a couple of good ones," he said. "But I can do ceramic work, too, you know."

  "No offense, but what we need right now is a professional," I said. "You think you could go get one of them and bring him here?"

  "Probably," Stafford said, not moving. "What's the plan?"

  "The plan is for you to go get your sculptor friend," I said patiently. "That's all you need to know right now." I took another look at his face. "Don't worry, you're not going to just be sitting around twiddling your thumbs. Oh, and we might need a set of metalworking tools, too, including a small plasma torch."

  For a long moment he gazed hard at my face. Then, abruptly, he got up and strode out of the room. "I don't think he trusts you," Bayta said.

  "Nothing I can do about that," I said. "If Uncle Rafael's recommendation isn't good enough for him—"

  "I meant I don't think he trusts you about Penny."

  I broke off. "Oh."

  For a moment we stared across the room at each other in silence …and as I gazed into her eyes something she'd said earlier suddenly penetrated my consciousness. Danger and tension can bring people together. I know that.